Of all the unpleasant places that could be found on the dying world of Earth, one locale was dreaded above all others. Imbedded in the side of a dormant volcano, an ancient spacecraft known as the Ark served as the base of operations for one of the most ambitious and domineering races ever seen in this galaxy. Its denizens were of steel and circuitry, all proud carriers of the red sigil that marked them as members of the feared race known as the Autobots.

All denizens . . . save one.

The Rec Room of the Ark was filled with cheers and jeers as the Terran performed his array of tricks. Although the room was full of off-duty Autobots choosing to ignore the spectacle in preference to dancing or other distractions, several stood near the performance and watched.

"Let's see 'im shtand on his head agin', 'Bee," slurred Huffer, disgustingly over-energized and proud of it. He stood in a small crowd surrounding a circular table, watching the resident pet follow the commands of his master for the entertainment of the surrounding Autobots. The pet in question was a small human, dressed in a bright yellow jumpsuit that nearly matched the color of the metallic being who commanded him. Eyes glazed and a silly grin plastered on his face, the human awaited the next order.

"Hang on - watch this," Bumblebee boasted. "He just learned this one a few days ago. Spike! Show us a Decepticon jet!" The minibot grinned in anticipation.

The young man, who was maybe seventeen in Earth years, swayed forward a few steps, then spread his arms wide and ran with his head lowered. His organic vocal cords mimicked the sound of a jet engine to the best of their limited ability.

"Nnyyoooommm!" Chuckles and outright guffaws were heard from the gathered Bots at the sight of a human imitating the hated enemy. "Zzzooomm!" One arm went down and the other up as Spike "banked" to the left as he reached the end of the table, a multi-colored affair made from Decepticon body shells.

The act was on the verge of getting old when the human abruptly angled his arms and head as if trying to gain altitude. Those who were significantly overcharged had little difficulty in imagining an enemy jet moving upward, nearly attaining the vertical position, when suddenly the sound effects changed.

"Zzrrroo . . . put . . . zzrrooo . . . put, put," his arms trembling with each "put", Spike managed to convey a convincing impression of a jet going into a stall. Yellow-clad arms starting to pinwheel, eyes wide and with a manic smile on his face, the human continued.

"Put, put, put . . . wwhheeeeerrrrr . . ." the human whistled a descending tone as the pinwheeling became more frantic, then abruptly fell to the table in a convulsion, which gradually quieted to stillness. The room filled with whistles and catcalls and a few hisses as the human completed his performance. A few energon chips were tossed on the table in appreciation.

"An amusing performance, as usual, Bumblebee," Arcee laughed maliciously. The pink Femme commander sat on a barstool, cold blue optics watching as the human clambered to his feet and started walking the length of the table back to his owner.

"Why, thank you Lieutenant," replied the yellow mini-bot gallantly as he gathered up his human, holding him in the crook of one metallic arm. Spike, still catching his breath, leaned quietly against his master, looking like a child, or maybe a large doll.

"I still think we should fin' out if he can hold 'is energon," a somewhat over-juiced Springer leered down at the smaller Bot. Bumblebee was unintimidated by the larger green Mech and scowled up in reply.

"You want to find out so badly what energon does to humans, catch one of your own and have Wheeljack test that. Just stay away from mine," he growled, holding Spike possessively. The human remained silent during the altercation, glazed eyes staring at something only he could see, a small smile still on his lips.

"Well, maybe I will," Springer replied, but as he glanced at Spike, a cold cruel light flashed briefly in his optics. Bumblebee proceeded to ignore him as he gathered up the evening's take of pink glowing energon chips from the multi-colored metal table. He then threaded his way through the milling Bots, some of whom were starting to dance to a beat-heavy tune blasting from Jazz's sound system. The other members of Team Omega were here also, Blaster glaring at Jazz from a corner with Scopeshot nearby, who was as usual cleaning and polishing one of his large collection of rifles. Bumblebee caught Cliffjumper looking at his human and glared back, knowing full well what Cliffjumper liked to do with the fleshies he caught. . . .

They exited the Rec Room, the little Bot starting to skip down the darkened corridor. Spike had long since learned how to relax into the peculiar gait and rode along almost contentedly, his head bobbing at every little jump. They passed very few Autobots on the way to Bumblebee's quarters, most of them being already in their own recharge or back in the Rec Room.

Bumblebee skidded to a silent stop as he heard the sound of multiple footsteps coming toward them from around the next bend in the corridor . . . or more specifically, as his audio receptors picked out the distinct voice of the Autobot's Second-in-Command.

Bumblebee quickly changed his gait to the very picture of sedateness. Prowl had once found Bumblebee's skipping to be annoying, and Bee had absolutely no intention of being found annoying by Prowl ever again…particularly when it sounded like Prowl was out on a date. . . . Sure enough, it was Prowl that came around the corner, escorting a deferential Femme on each arm. The sleek black and white Autobot exuded an almost tangible aura of power and dark grace, and turned the simple act of walking into the proud, confident gait of the alpha male. Few Autobots could look up into those chill blue optics and remain uncowed.

Bumblebee was definitely not among that select group. Walking very close to the shadowed orange metallic walls of the Ark, he managed to pass the trio with only the barest dismissive glance from the feared Datsun. Exhaling with a sigh of relief, he quickly traveled the remainder of the distance to his quarters.

He entered the combination to his lock. He'd done enough favors for Wheeljack that the cranky scientist had been persuaded to turn his attention from bombs to security long enough to install a cunning lock system on Bee's door, enabling the minibot to at last retain his privacy. Of course, the door could still be broken down by brute force, but Prowl disapproved of such rampant open displays of warfare among the Autobots, preferring that such matters remained at least behind closed doors and secure sound insulation. And no one, down to and including the belligerent Warpath, cared enough about Bumblebee's quarters to earn Prowl's disapproval.

Finally inside the refuge of his quarters, Bumblebee turned to the right and gently lifted Spike to the shelf that held the human's cage and provisions. The yellow-clad human turned to sit on the edge of the shelf, glazed eyes a little more alert now, seeming to be anticipating something.

"Go on, eat and clean yourself up first," instructed Bee, turning away to stash the energon chips in a hidden compartment. "And don't forget to wash your hair. You know how it gets when you don't take care of it." Spike ran one hand over his head, a small part of his mind noting the slightly greasy texture of his roughly cut hair, unconsciously stopping the motion before he actually touched the scar behind his left ear. He then carefully got up and moved to the shower Bumblebee had improvised for him. The water was cold, which he hated, one reason his fastidious master had taken to making him shower as a condition to getting his evening dose. After that, he moved to the mound of carelessly flung tin cans that served him as a food supply and picked one up at random. Pineapples chunks; that would be fine. Spike opened it with a small can opener, then gulped down the contents.

Finally dressed in a clean T-shirt and baggy gray sweatpants for sleeping in, Spike returned to the edge of the shelf, watching as Bee finished his evening meal. If the minibot had not been so fastidious, it was doubtful if the human would have cared about his appearance at all. As it was, it went unspoken between them that the only reason he cooperated with the regimen was for the evening dose of the substance that had converted him from rebellious prisoner to cooperative pet.

The yellow minibot, sitting in a padded chair, casually enjoyed his flask of energon and outwardly ignored the slightly anxious looks his pet was sending his way.

"So little human, did you enjoy your performance tonight?" Bumblebee asked his human, who answered immediately in his recently deepened voice.

"Of course, Lord Bumblebee. I always enjoy showing off for your friends."

"Glad to hear it." Bumblebee finished his energon in one last swig, placing the flask down on the small end table and opening a compartment on his left upper thigh, finally removing a small item. "And what else do you have to tell me tonight?" He stood and approached Spike's shelf, waiting for the answer. This had been one of the hardest things to teach Spike, even after months of using the rho-fentanyl. . . .

"I love you, Lord Bumblebee," Spike answered correctly tonight, his mouth stretched in an adoring grin. "You take care of me and I love you."

"Very good!" Bee praised his pet and dropped the small hypo into Spike's waiting palm. The human immediately raised the applicator and pressed it to the side of his neck, releasing the drug with a soft hiss into the subdermis. His eyes starting to regain their glaze almost immediately, he returned the small object to this master almost absently, focusing on the ball of warmth that was spreading from his neck to the rest of his body.

"Now go on, get into bed before you pass out," Bee teased, chuckling. Nodding in compliance, Spike got up clumsily but managed not to fall off the shelf. He ducked his head and entered his cage, falling onto the soft mound of padding that served as his bed. Bumblebee shut the cage door behind him and locked it, noting from the human's respiratory rate that Spike had probably fallen asleep within seconds of reaching his bed.

"Sweet dreams, little human," Bee said softly, a fond smile tugging at the edges of his mouth components. Content with his world for the night, the yellow minibot crossed the room to his recharge berth and within minutes had powered down into slumber.

In his cage, Spike lifted his head from where he had been feigning sleep. Though the dose of rho-fentanyl threatened to drown his spirit in a haze of euphoria, for just a moment he drew his feeble powers of concentration together enough to direct a wave of emotion at the Autobot who had been his captor for two long years. . . .

. . . Hate.

He had just been a curious teenager, as ignorant as the rest of his world of the true nature of the robots that had recently begun to be sighted. So when he had seen the driverless cars, trucks, and one large semi-truck speed by the country car-repair shop that he helped his dad run, it had seemed natural to give into that curiosity. He had noted the same strange group of vehicles a few hours ago going toward the city, and was now prepared to follow.

"I'll be back later, Dad!" he had called out to his father, who was cleaning up after replacing a transmission.

"Where are you going, son?" his father, whom everyone called Sparkplug, had responded tiredly.

"Just checking something out," Spike had responded with a careless grin, excited and not willing to take the chance that his father would be "reasonable" and forbid him to tail a group of vehicles who were driving themselves.

"Just make sure you're back by supper," his dad had replied, wearily going in to the store to call his latest customer and report the transmission work completed.

Climbing in to his dad's Dodge Ram truck, Spike had done his best to track them, which was difficult considering his quarry was a variety of cars traveling over 150 miles an hour.

Behind him, the store TV suddenly blared out a special report.

In the distance, he could make out a line of rising smoke against the already cloudy sky, and wondered to himself about the origin. . . .

Fortunately, this far out from the city there was only one major road, and the point at which the convey had left the road was extremely visible. He had stopped the large blue truck at this point, bringing it to the right shoulder of the road, and stepped out of the cab to stare in wonder.

A great swath of destruction greeted his eyes, a path nearly thirty yards wide that appeared to have been blasted through the woods. It lead due west, a newly blazed, smoking trail up the mountainside and straight to the summit of Mt. St. Hillary. Small fires in the process of burning themselves out lined the sides of the trail in isolated patches. Short stumps scattered the ground, the evergreens they had supported having been flung out to the sides.

It looked like something out of a war movie, or out of one of his father's stories that he occasionally could be persuaded to tell about his service in the Korea. Up the mountain in the distance, Spike saw flashes of metallic color.

Hurriedly making sure his boots were secure, he slammed the truck door shut and began making the journey on foot. However those other cars were making it, his dad's truck certainly wasn't going to make it very far through all of this. Certain he was on the cusp of some grand adventure, he barely gave a moment's thought to going back.

How very stupid he had been. . . .

By the time his journey had lasted an hour, he was starting to feel a bit sick from the smoke and the general destruction of the landscape. A few thoughts about turning around were met with dismissal by his "stubborn streak", as his dad liked to call his occasional obstinacy. Here and there he had found tire tracks along with large, deep impressions in the ground, and his curiosity just wouldn't let him turn back.

Determined, he continued the climb as fast as he could, not knowing that far behind him police vehicles had found his truck and had cordoned off the highway for five miles in either direction.

Finally, the veil of smoke ahead of him seemed more diffuse than previously, and he left the trail proper to a few yards inside the line of evergreens. The scent of evergreen mixed oddly with that of the smoke, and pine needles crunched softly under his feet. Most of the little fires were gone now, leaving behind areas of ash or smoldering coals that required avoidance. He silently blessed the fact that rain had been nearly omnipresent for the last couple of weeks and clambered over and under the tree trunks that had been moved from the trail to land on the sides. In some cases the torn-out trunks had apparently landed with a lot of force behind them, causing more trees to fall in a tangle of roots and branches. His mind returned to the puzzle of how cars had managed to do all this. Spike knew cars pretty well and had been helping out in his dad's shop since he was twelve, and he would have sworn that no regular car, let alone a semi pulling a trailer, could have made the trip he had just climbed. An Army jeep or something, maybe.

His cautious approach seemed to take forever, and he was considering going back to the trail when he spotted a clearing ahead. Heart thumping with excitement, he skulked his way to the clearing's edge and peered out from behind a large cedar tree.

The sight before his eyes immediately made the trip worth it. Across the grassy clearing, a rock face stretched up toward the dark, clouded sky, and imbedded in its base Spike could make out a large section of an orange metal . . . something. He couldn't tell exactly what, except that it was large and seemed to extend, hangar-like, further in to the mountainside. Then a loud sound like a series of crashes caught his attention, and turning his eyes to its origin, he caught his first view of an Autobot in robot mode.

And the Autobot caught view of him. . . .

Running had been futile, of course. The enormous black robot had easily snagged him up, holding him up painfully by one arm, and simply chuckled at Spike's squirming, entreaties, and outright insults while carrying him towards the entrance to - whatever it was. As they got closer, Spike stopped trying to jerk away and almost forgot the pain in his arm as he gaped at the huge structure. There were round parts that looked like huge thrusters, and the shape he could make out resembled what he imagined. . . .

What he imagined the end of a spaceship would look like. . . .

"Trailbreaker to Mirage," his captor spoke suddenly into his other wrist. A few seconds passed before a reply was heard.

"What do you want, Trailbreaker?" The voice was clipped and abrupt, and instead of coming out of the wrist-radio, came from directly behind them. Trailbreaker whirled immediately to see their source, swinging Spike painfully by his right arm.

"Will you stop it with the arm already! Lemme go!" Spike had yelped again, but was completely ignored. The human started to yell again, but the abrupt appearance of another large robot out of thin air startled him into cutting it short. It . . . materialized, like a ghost who had decided to make his presence known to the mortal world, a box of light momentarily outlining the area of arrival of the new robot. Tall, with silver and blue coloration, Mirage frowned at the sight of the human.

"How long have you been out here, sneaking around?" growled his black captor in annoyance.

"Just . . . making sure the circuits are intact," Mirage replied lightly with a thin smile. "I see that a flesh creature has made his way up here. I take it I'm to maintain guard while you take your . . . prisoner . . . in to present to Prowl?"

"That's right," Trailbreaker replied, still sounding annoyed. "And see if you can actually do something without hiding behind your cloaking circuits!" Soft tenor laughter answered him as Mirage turned and walked towards the treeline.

Muttering to himself, the black Mech turned back toward the spaceship with his captive, entered the shadows at the entrance, and together they disappeared from the light of the outside world. . . .

The sound of Trailbreaker's footsteps changed from the dull thud of metal on ground, to a deep clank as he walked on the metal floor plating. The first chamber they crossed was a large expanse of the orange metal filled with even more robots, each intent on their separate tasks. One of these, a bright yellow robot who was the smallest Spike had seen so far, caught sight of Trailbreaker and his prize, and came over to investigate.

"Hey, Trailbreaker, whatcha got there? Another flesh-creature?" Trailbreaker paused to allow the newcomer a closer look. The yellow robot's blue optics were about the same level as Spike's frightened brown eyes, and he leaned in closer and prodded the dangling human with a metallic forefinger.

"I haven't seen something this cute since my old helio-hamster back home."

"Yeah, well, unless you want to plead to Prowl for its life, it'll probably join the others we captured today in Wheeljack's lab," grumbled Trailbreaker in response, starting to move off again. Trailbreaker wasn't sure why the relatively harmless (therefore useless) Bumblebee had even been brought along on the original mission, but he was one of the few who had a small soft spot for the bright yellow Bot. Both Autobots seemed to totally ignore Spike's occasional kick or plea to be set down as they made their way towards a corridor at the far end of the room.

"You guys get all the fun," Bumblebee complained. "But Prowl knows I'll want one of these sooner or later, might as well be sooner."

"Heh. You want to ask him, that's your business and your chassis. Me, I'm just reporting an intruder," Trailbreaker smirked down at the yellow Bot, who paused a moment in consideration. Prowl should be in a fairly decent mood at the moment, but would he be annoyed at Bumblebee pestering him with a relatively minor detail?

Going with the notion that while asking might end up hurting him, but that he'd never get what he wanted if he didn't, Bumblebee had gone in with Trailbreaker to Prowl's office. Before they entered, Bumblebee poked the still squirming human once again to get his attention.

"If you don't want to get killed on the spot, I suggest that you keep quiet when you're in there." He nodded toward the doors to Prowl's office. The human, who seemed to be tiring, answered him with a glare, but astonishingly, shut up.

Things had gone fairly smoothly there for Bumblebee. Prowl had been in the middle of preparing a report for the Lord Prime and obviously didn't want to take the time to deal with Trailbreaker, Bumblebee, or intruders, and issued directives to minimize further time spent on the subject.

"Bumblebee, you may have this human," Prowl ordered, much to Trailbreaker's considerable surprise. The black and white Autobot glanced coldly down at the yellow minibot. "When we have the resources I'll send the usual requisitions to Wheeljack and Ratchet. But if it makes any trouble, I'll have you in enerchains in the Rec room, understood?"

"Yes, sir!" Bumblebee answered, adding, "Thank you, sir!"

"And Trailbreaker. . . ." The Datsun's voice was deceptively casual as he leaned back in his chair, light reflecting off his body as he moved.

"Yes, Commander?"

"Don't waste my time with single flesh creatures again. Just send them directly to Wheeljack's lab. Unless a simple order like that is beyond your capabilities?"

"I understand, Commander," Trailbreaker replied with caution, noting the signs of carefully controlled temper in Prowl, the cold flash in his blue optics, the left hand balled into a fist, and the right casually placed on his desk near the acid pellet gun. . . .

"Dismissed." The feared Autobot second-in-command released them. Each giving a quick salute, both Autobots turned toward the door, leaving Prowl to pursue other matters.

"What are the usual requisitions?" Trailbreaker asked curiously as he handed over the human. Bumblebee accepted him by the waist, then held him in the crook of his elbow. Spike didn't fight it, just collapsed against the yellow metal of his new captor rubbing his abused arm.

"Who are you guys?" Spike moaned softly, starting to be unsurprised at being ignored.

"Do you really want to get involved in the Lord Prime's business?" Bumblebee asked lightly, an amused gleam in his blue optics as he studied the reaction of the larger Mech.

"Hmm. . . ." Trailbreaker studied the smaller Bot before him and couldn't imagine how the minibot and a human could be of any importance to Optimus Prime. "I suppose not." With a thoughtful look in his optic, he swung away and started walking back to the exit.

Bumblebee had watched Trailbreaker go for a moment, then turned to go deeper into the Ark, eventually reaching his quarters. The Bot moved with a strange gait that Spike eventually identified as skipping as he bounced around wildly, starting to feel very sick. But by the time they got to Bee's quarters, Spike had recovered enough to try to jump out of the minibot's arms. Even though he didn't think he could find his way out, he had to try to escape before they went behind any more sets of doors.

"Whoa! Hey there, behave, you," Bumblebee snagged him easily. "I don't think you understand your situation yet." He opened the doors to his quarters, the only room Spike would see for weeks. . . . "Please let me go," Spike started to shake as his initial panic started giving way to bone deep fear. "I want to go home!"

Bumblebee shut the doors and held the small human almost comfortingly.

"There, there," he soothed. "This is your home now."

The young man stared over at his sleeping master and a very small, aware part of him hated. Oh God, how he hated the wretched little Autobot for everything . . . everything they had done to him . . . his power of thought waned as the drug kicked in. Spike was overwhelmed as it carried him up to a high whether he wanted it or not, to a sweet, suffocating pleasure he needed if only to avoid the excruciating pain of withdrawal. His hate slipped away through the cracks in his mind, and drugged sleep claimed him.

The next morning progressed with what had become a normal routine. The little spark of hate at the human's core had gone dormant again, overshadowed by the effects of the rho-fentanyl and months of conditioning. Spike ate a can of cold spagettios for breakfast and was given his morning hypo, dose adjusted so as to not send the human into sleep. Bee drank his morning energon ration, taking only what he needed and saving the rest in a small cube. Spike then spent an hour tending to his master in vehicle form, carefully running a polishing cloth across the bright yellow metal. His mind a drug-hazed cloud, Spike thought only of his master's well-being. Bee spoke to his pet casually in the manner of a master to a trusted servant or pet, and the soft exchange of tenor and adolescent voices created a pleasant chatter in the stillness.

Spike had learned many things over the years in these mornings, but most of the time the haze in his mind prevented him from stringing facts together in any kind of logical fashion. In his rare lucid moments, he could laugh 'til he cried at how much he knew that could help the humans on the outside; but most of the time the drug allowed him to keep such painful thoughts away. In a way that used to disturb him, what remained of Spike enjoyed these peaceful mornings. The quiet routine was the closest thing he could find to happiness these days.

After Bumblebee was satisfied with his own appearance, the next step was to select apparel for his pet. Not dissimilar to a collection of themed sweaters for a beloved dog, Bumblebee had accumulated a number of outfits for the human.

"Let's see . . ." Bumblebee mused. "Yesterday you wore that suit that matches my paintjob . . . here, let's try these."

Spike pulled on the days' selection over his slender form, his movements slow and somewhat clumsy. When he was done, he stood in a red long-sleeved shirt with a leather vest, blue jeans, mismatching cowboy boots and a rather beaten up black western hat. As usual, Bumblebee also had him don a red glass earring in his left ear.

"Have you ever ridden a horse, Spike? Like they do in those Western movies?" Bumblebee asked casually, pleased with himself, and speculatively holding a power pack in his hands. If it was a slow day, nothing would be harmed if he overcharged for a while. . . .

Spike stood there a long moment, left hand touching the earring which had been fashioned out of a Decepticon optic, his glazed eyes almost lost beneath the brim of the overlarge hat. At last he answered, voice soft and slightly slurred.

"I think so, Lord Bumblebee. A lon' . . . a long time ago."

Before Bee could ask any more questions, the peace of the morning was destroyed by a call from Prowl. Bumblebee answered the call eagerly on his internal radio.

"Bumblebee here, Commander."

"Bumblebee, report to my office immediately for a new assignment," came precise voice of Prowl, who then abruptly cut the channel. Bee quickly prepared to comply, anxious for another assignment and to further prove his worth to the Autobot Empire. He placed Spike back in the cage before leaving, the human distractedly holding on to his hat as he was lifted up onto the shelf.

"Now just wait here, and I'll be back soon," the yellow Bot ordered, a grin on his face. "I think we're going to get called into action again!"

"I hope so, Lord Bumblebee," Spike replied as he had been trained, a crazy sort of smile on his face. This sort of occasion was one of the few times he was left by himself in the quarters, as the second-in-command did not care for the presence of any human in his domain. Bee left him to his own thoughts and devices, activating the locking mechanism behind him.

In the last few months, human resistance had become a little more serious and organized as the Decepticons gained the trust - or at least cooperation - of more groups. The Autobots had responded by using Bumblebee, since by using Spike as a sort of camoflauge, he had yet to be suspected an Autobot spy. While deciphering the location of individual rebel bases was not usually the problem, the Lord Prime, and by extension Prowl, liked to extract as much information as they could from each cell and to arrange as much confrontation with Decepticons as possible. Since the means were at hand, the easiest solution was the use of undercover operatives. Spike and Bumblebee worked to discover future attacks in the guerilla war the take-over of Earth had become, and to arrange forces to counter these attacks.

Together, Spike and Bumblebee had infiltrated five groups of rebels in various parts of the world. With the exception of the suspicious Japanese, it had been relatively easy for Spike to sell his scripted story of being an escaped slave with intentions of vengeance.

In all five cases the result had been the total annihilation of the resistance cell. In two cases it had resulted in a clash between Autobot and Decepticon forces, both resulting in victories for the Bots. Bumblebee's reputation, though mostly unknown except to the field teams, was slowly growing again. . . .

Spike sat on the padding inside his cell, an array of scavenged mattresses and pillows, and leaned his head against one metal slat, a hint of an idiot grin at his lips. He pulled the hat over his eyes and drifted in and out of semi-consciousness. As happened so often when his mind drifted in this in-betweenness, his master's voice came to him, whispering phrases that had been repeated over and over again during his training.

Only I can take care of you. Only I. . . .

You're special, different. You alone of humans are acceptable to the Autobots. . . .

And most frequently of all:

You can never go back. You'll die if you do. You will always belong to me. . . .

It hadn't taken long for Spike to worm his way into the confidence of the rebels. They were just too desparate to turn away potential help, and too trusting of fellow humans. Collaboration with the Bots, though occasionally heard of, was still very rare. If the Bots wanted something, they took it, end of story, no need for human help. The only use they had for humans were as slaves. . . .

And so as another human, found sleeping in a rusty yellow VW not too close to their main base, looking starved and asking to join the resistance, Spike aroused very little suspicion. He was practically welcomed with open arms and given a scenic tour of their base.

Setting them up for destruction had been far too easy. There were two cells in the area around Phoenix, Arizona, which frequently operated together. During a week of posing as a rebel, Spike's every word was monitored by a device that had been implanted in his skull during the early months of his captivity. His responses were often dictated by his master's voice transmitted on a shielded short-range signal to the same mechanism, a quiet whisper only he could hear. Eventually, Spike discovered the date of a joint night attack, Bumblebee radioed Autobot headquarters on a secure frequency, and the counterstrike was planned.

The target was a storage shed relatively hidden among the hills of western Arizona, one that the rebels had learned held a few minor weapons, some communications devices, and a small quantity of energon. It lay in a small valley that at one time was a popular camping site, now a large clearing with a small, by Autobot standards, structure in the center. The shed was guarded by several drones, which had been imported by the Autobots from Cybertron. This sort of drone had a not-undeserved reputation for having difficulty targeting organic opponents, and was deemed the next logical target for the resistance.

The rebels had apparently kept a few things from Spike, intentionally or not, such as the weaponry of their allying group. The partnering cell showed up before moonrise at the storage shed with a pulse rifle carried by two humans in an interesting harness. It worked wonderfully against the drones, hovering platforms armed with laser cannons that were pretty stationary. One after another, the drones exploded, the fires bright in the darkness of night, shrapnel flying dangerously close to the exulting humans.

One of the humans whooped in delight as the last of the drones was destroyed, shaking his blond hair out of his eyes. He turned to grin at Spike.

"Now if we could only do that to every robot on the planet!" He sprinted forward, passing the pulse rifle team with a congratulatory yell, missing the agonized expression on Spike's face. Spike heard Bumblebee's voice through the implant.

:Come back here to me, Spike. You know what will happen next. . . .:

Unnoticed by the others, Spike hung back, then aided by the night, slipped away. A curious tightness in his chest troubled him as he made it back to Bumblebee, and as the small car moved away, he looked back at the unfolding scene.

"Well done, Spike," Bumblebee praised him, using his vocal synthesizer for the first time in a week. "Now it's only to get to the high ground and watch the show!" The Bot drove without headlights, slipping quietly through the night as Bee deactivated the device that had provided him with the sound of a muffler in poor repair.

"Hurry up, boys and girls," a rebel far behind them urged. "Let's move before alarms bring in every Autobot in the state." The rebels waved in the trucks to carry their off their captured prizes, while another team darted up to the massive doors to the structure. It was only when the entirety of the rebel force had emerged from the treeline, totally committed to the raid, that the counterstrike commenced.

The humans at the door first noted something was awry. Before they had figured out how to start opening the huge steel slab, it snapped open with a whoosh. The distinctive sound of an Autobot engine gunning was the only other warning as a small red car careened out of the opening. A wicked cackle blared out into the night as it slammed into the rebel nearest the door, launching the fragile human into the air to crash in a broken heap on the ground. His headlights flicked on, illuminating the night, and Cliffjumper executed a high-speed right angle turn in pursuit of his next victim, ignoring the small arms fire of the panicked rebels.

Meanwhile, another form had exited the shed. Turret tracking toward the flesh-creature driven vehicles, the massive red tank fired a series of blasts in quick succession. Sniper fire from the nearby ridge only added to the chaos as screaming humans fought to escape. The pulse-rifle team quickly squared away and started to lay down cover fire for the frantic rebels.

Fortunately for the Autobots, they must not have had a whole lot of practice firing at moving targets, and while they were able to hit the slow-moving Warpath, the blasts barely scorched the heavily armored warrior.

Two shots from a sniper rifle hidden in the rocks above, and the pulse-rifle team was down. The whole thing was pretty simple after that. A few shots of raw explosive power from Warpath's gun turret had demolished the human's vehicles, and then the foreboding blood-red tank had taken to aiming at flesh-creatures.

Cliffjumper in car mode had run over and through any humans that had gotten in his path, gleefully spraying blood over the shadowed landscape, and Scopeshot had continued to snipe at any targets that attempted to flee the battlefield. Bumblebee with Spike had made their way up and around to the ledge of a rock formation which was the high ground of the area, not far from where the sniper had settled himself.

Bumblebee considered the structure at the center of the chaos. Though there had been a small amount of energon in the unguarded depot, the rest of the equipment was fairly standard by Autobot terms - and very desirable by rebel terms. Bumblebee idly wondered just how long Prowl had kept that shed there exclusively as bait, as he watched the destruction of the rebels with considerable satisfaction.

In the end, there was only one survivor, a young man a few years older than Spike from the local cell named Chris McCurry. A cool night breeze tugged at his hair and clothes, and his desperate expression was illuminated by the slowly rising moon and the multiple bonfires that had once been the trucks and vans of the resistance groups. Sprawled on the ground, the blond-headed rebel clutched at his right lower leg where bone was visible having broken through the skin. The wound bleeding sluggishly, he tried to get up but failed, and glared defiantly up at the surrounding Autobots.

"All right, BOOM, where did you get this from?" Warpath held up the harness on which the pulse rifle was mounted, his deep basso voice rumbling like thunder. His deep red body shell seemed eerily wet in the light of the newly risen full moon, as if he had just bathed in human blood. The tiny human blanched but did not answer. Instead, he squinted through his pain at the bodies around him, seeming to catalog them, finally coming up one new rebel short. His pain-filled gaze started to roam further then, finally looking up to the ledge above where Spike was held by Bumblebee.

Human to human, their eyes caught and met under the moonlight. At first Chris' expression was full of despair, which turned to puzzlement as he noted that Spike was unharmed and sitting without restraint on the yellow Autobot's arm.

"He's looking at me," Spike quavered to his master without looking away. "He thinks I've been captured too." His voice was distressed but quiet, inaudible to the human below.

Bumblebee replied by the imbedded radio.

:Let's see if he guesses the truth.:

The little Bot's optics gleamed maliciously as he gazed down at the rebel human. Down there was the enemy he had been designed to defeat, the indiginous resistor of Autobot domination. Down below was an enemy that required skill to be drawn into the open, and who was to be somewhat admired for his tenacity, skill, and daring in surviving this long in his fight against the Empire. His life validated Bumblebee's existance.

From the moonlit clearing below, a young man looked into the eyes of another of his kind, and found only darkness and betrayal.

"You bastard," Chris choked out. He almost couldn't believe it. A human working with Autobots. . . . Naked, ugly hate stood out on his face as he shouted, "Spike! You BASTARD! You betrayed us - you--" Chris' umbrage was halted as Warpath rumbled again, stepping into the line-of-sight between the two humans.

"CHOOOM. I believe I asked you a question? Do I have to ZUUM rip that leg from your body to get your attention?" The words rolled across the clearing like the dark voice of an angry god.

Beside him, Cliffjumper laughed, a quiet cackle that matched the psychotic light in his optics. While Warpath merely appeared to be coated in human circulating fluid, the small red minibot was in reality splattered with blood and gore. The flickering firelight cast harsh shadows across his face, which was set in an expression of anticipation.

"I don't know where it came from," the human answered defiantly, and looking directly up into Warpath's face with an almost insane gesture of bravery, flipped the Autobot the bird. "So jerk off and go ask someone else."

What could be seen of Warpath's upper face contorted with rage as he identified the gesture, his optics narrowing dangerously. With a low rumble of anger the massive tank brought one foot up to squish the insolent flesh creature into oblivion. Spike tensed on Bumblebee's arm, waiting for Warpath to bring this scene to an end.

"Stop, Warpath," snapped a new voice. "You're giving him what he wants: an easy death without telling us what we want to know." Walking up to beside Bumblebee, a medium sized blue Autobot stowed the last of his rifles away in subspace, and swung himself down off the ledge, stumbling a little as he dropped to the clearing below.

Grudgingly, the blood-red warrior complied, removing his huge foot component from any immediate danger of crushing the rebel.

"Awww, you're spoiling the fun, Scopeshot," Cliffjumper complained, crossing his bloody arms in annoyance and glaring up at the taller Mech.

"Look, I don't care what you do to him, after he's told us how his group has been getting Transformers technology." Scopeshot gestured with one dark grey and blue arm at the harness Warpath still held, then knelt down beside the rebel. Chris' face was contorted as he realized that his death was going to be a long time coming.

"Look," the sniper said reasonably, mask vents lighting up, "You can tell us what we want to know, or we can do this the hard way."

His face in a huge scowl and a few angry tears starting to run down his face, the young human remained defiant. "SCREW YOU, and the DAMN SPACESHIP you rode in on!" he screamed, his breath coming in rough heaves.

"What nonsense," Scopeshot sighed. "I'll be back in a bit, guys." Scooping up the injured human, he shoved the rebel into his passenger compartment as he transformed into his Ferrari F40 alt mode, a single gold stripe accenting the steel blue color, an Autobot sigil on his right door, and a red and silver omega symbol on the left. Powerful engine kicking in, he started off cross-country, each bump sending waves of agony through his prisoner's already broken leg. "And now, human scum, we will discuss the identity of your rebel suppliers. . . ."

Spike finally looked away, trying to push awareness of the scene from his conscious mind, which grew more and more difficult as cries of pain started to drift up and back on the wind. Bumblebee watched the departure with some concern. Scopeshot had been a logical choice for the mission, as the humans were such small targets, but also served as mission commander and a voice of reason.

Disgruntled and with a loud ZOWW, Warpath let the harness slip to the ground and watched the sleek car move off on his well-nigh acrobatic off-road tour, his shape becoming harder to see as clouds slipped across the moon. Cliffjumper, curious, walked over beside the larger red Mech, ducked under the turret that projected from the tank's midsection, and picked the harness up. It was obviously Cybertronian technology, a gift to the fleshies from the Decepticons, no doubt. However, some creative work had gone into adapting the large mechanism into something usable by humans . . . Wheeljack and Perceptor would probably be interested.

Although the screams, incredibly audible from inside the blue Ferrari even at this distance, were entertaining at some level, Cliffjumper started wondering how to occupy his time as Scopeshot extracted information, and glanced up at the ominous figure beside him. Without speaking, they had the same thought concurrently. Together they turned around to look for Bumblebee - and the human that accompanied him.

But the small yellow scout, shrewd little mind having run through the probable outcomes if he stayed alone with Warpath and Cliffjumper, had already left.

The screams faded away as the human continued to loose strength and resistance, but the moon did not reappear to illuminate the scene any further. Instead, clouds continued to pass over the bright circle, as if protecting it from the torture that occurred on the Earth below.

Bumblebee drove them home back to the Ark, approaching his destination as the predawn light illuminated the eastern sky. He was jubilant in their successful field mission and looking forward to replacing his rusty panels, donned for the sake of penetrating the cell, with his regular shined and waxed ones. Spike rode in the passenger seat, silent and sullen as he had always been on the return from such missions. Bumblebee ascribed it to missing the full doses of rho-fentanyl he was given at home and paid it little mind, instead focusing on the overcharge to which he was going to treat himself tonight.

Although his face was relaxed and blank, inside Spike's mind was a jumble of harsh emotions: shame, hatred, guilt. . . .  He had betrayed his fellow humans for the sixth time . . . he had watched them die because of his deliberate actions . . . he had betrayed. . .   Slow tears leaked from his brown eyes across an otherwise impassive face. Intent on the road ahead, Bumblebee appeared not to notice.

Once home, Bumblebee reported immediately to Prowl, once again leaving the human in their quarters. He did pause long enough to find a fresh hypo of the drug and offered it to Spike, then locked the human in his cage.

"You did well, Spike," he chattered, rapidly exchanging some rusty body panels he had placed on himself as disguise for the mission with his regular, shiny yellow metal. "And now we are even closer at getting what we deserve . . . recognition from the Lord Prime himself for our service!" He grinned to himself and left, locking his quarters behind him, not noticing that his human had not yet taken the dose of the compound he usually awaited so anxiously.

In his cage, Spike stared down at the small hypo he held in his hands, the longer strands of his brown hair brushing against his cheeks, which were rough with the beginnings of whiskers. After two weeks with only the bare minimum dose of rho-fentanyl to prevent withdrawal, his mind was the clearest it had been in months. He stared at the device and what it represented: his bondage, his slavery, his humiliation and disgrace. . . .   His hands shook as unwelcome emotions flooded through him, similiar to his thoughts on the drive up, with one addition. It was a small voice, a small thought, but it was one he never permitted himself to hear, one he had learned to suppress with all his strength:

If Dad could see me now, I wonder what he would think?

At the thought of his father, who in Spike's mind represented all the noble virtues from which he was now forever separate, all of the young man's defenses broke down. Grief and regret overwhelmed him in physical waves. Almost gagging on the violent sobs that ripped through his body, Spike looked through a veil of tears at the device clutched in his hand and at what it represented:

Escape. Release. Oblivion. . . .

With an cry of profound anguish, Spike abruptly jammed the hypo against his neck, seeking an end to the pain. In what seemed like hours but was actually minutes, the human's sobbing slowed, his breathing eased, and his thoughts became obscured by the sedating effects of the drug. Eventually, he slept.

"C'mon, eat a little of this for me," the small yellow Bot crooned. "Come on, I heard on one of the radio frequencies used here that all humans like this stuff. . . ." He cut off in exasperation as Spike lay unmoved and rigid, curled up in a fetal position on the far side of the cage that Bee had created for him. He'd lain like that for most of a day now; his third week in captivity had decreased the amount of whining, pleading, and cage-rattling on the part of the small human, but had failed to result in any kind of obedience.

His new pet, Bumblebee had discovered, had quite a stubborn streak.

Mouth twisted in annoyance, Bumblebee decided on a different tactic.

"All right then . . . if you're not going to respond to kindness. . . ."

He reached into the cage and grasped the human about the waist with both gray hands, firmly and with a bit of unneccessary roughness. Spike almost automatically started to struggle, but was weak after not having eaten for nearly two days.

>Bumblebee sat Spike down on the edge of the shelf and grabbed the boy's left hand between two metal fingers. With his other hand, he held out a bar of chocolate within easy reach.

"Pick up the food and eat it," he ordered sternly, his blue optics flashing with impatience. With his yellow head framed by two small horns, Spike had long since begun to think of Bee as his own personal devil. Eyes crusted from hours of crying, he glanced over at his captured left hand and had a good idea of what was going to happen.

"No," he said weakly. "Please, just let me go home. . . .   I want to go home to my dad. . . ."

Bumblebee started slowly exerting pressure on the human's hand, causing the teenager to cry out in pain.

"You are home, and you belong to me," the yellow minibot stated firmly. "Now take this in your hand and consume the food!"

Bumblebee felt the frail bones begin to creak under the stress. Spike started to scream, and at last, cast forward with his free hand toward the chocolate. Bumblebee let up the pressure a bit but did not release the hand until the young human, awkwardly stripping away the paper wrapping, had eaten over half the bar.

Finally dropping the human's hand, which Spike immediately cradled close to his body, Bumblebee stepped back and frowned, regardless of his pet's eventual cooperation. Getting Spike to do anything, from eating to bathing himself, required at least a threat, and often actually carrying out some form of bodily harm upon him was necessary. The flesh creature was incredibly stubborn.

Something was going to have to be done.

Invisible tremors swept throughout the Ark, and left the Autobots more cautious in its wake. The news spread by vocal box, internal radio, and in a few cases hastily coded messages. The most feared being in all the Empire had been summoned to Earth by the Lord Prime, an Autobot whose name was always repeated in respect if not terror as the superbly intelligent architect of many a robot's painful demise.

Perceptor had arrived.

"Now, no matter what happens, remember that this is for your own good." Bumblebee lifted the human from the ten foot shelf and settled his pet in the crook of his gleaming yellow arm. Spike allowed himself to be manhandled, and asked cautiously, "What do you mean, Lord Bumblebee?" He had discovered that he often had better results in receiving information if he appeared to offer the respect that the minibot craved.

"You'll see. And I'll warn you now - be quiet when you meet Perceptor. He's . . . not a Mech you want annoyed with you." Spike saw Bee's optics flash in some as-yet undecipherable emotion.

"I don't want anybody annoyed with me, Lord Bumblebee," Spike replied, doing his best attempt to sound pliant, anticipating another chance to learn the corridors of the Ark well enough to consider making an escape. "You know that."

"No, I don't, and that's a problem," replied the yellow Beetle as he set out through the halls of the Ark in his merry little skip. Spike's head bobbed up and down, his entire body tense as he strove to ride out the abrupt changes in direction. "You can be extremely uncooperative when you set your mind to it."

Spike was disconcerted at this discussion, and was starting to lose track of the corridors. "I . . . of . . ." he started to say, Of course I'm stubborn, you big tin can. I don't belong here and I want to go home!

His sense of self-preservation interfered with the completion of that statement. Bee had made it quite clear that sentiments of that sort were not to be voiced in his presence. Remaining silent, Spike tried to avoid wincing as he remembered metallic fingers clamping down on his shoulder. . . . Watch the hallway, Spike, he told himself fiercely, trying to concentrate despite a painful weariness. Gotta get out of here . . . gotta make sure Dad's OK. . . . Bumblebee had mentioned, in passing, the various futile attacks on the Autobot's base by various human groups. He had also mentioned another faction of robots, called 'Decepticons', with whom the Autobots had been at war for what sounded like millions of years. Surreal, Spike thought as he tried to mark corridors in his mind. Earth really has been invaded by giant robots, and I'm in the middle of a close encounter of the fourth kind. . . .

They passed several other Autobots, several of whom sneered down at Bumblebee and his organic burden, before turning off into another corridor. They passed several doors, which appeared to be quarters for other Autobots, and finally entered through large double doors into the dimness of another, quite frightening world. . . .

The first thing that struck Spike was the smell . . . scents of strange, metallic odors, and a biting acidity to the air that stung his nostrils. The second was the large, surly white robot that appeared on their right, angrily muttering about something as he searched among a variety of flasks on a table covered in clutter. He started speaking before turning to see who had invaded his domain.

"If you haven't brought me some energon, so help me I'll reattach your main fuel line to your -"

"It's me, Ratchet," Bumblebee dared to interrupt. "And here." From subspace he called a small cube that glowed a soft red-pink in his hand.

"Aha!" Ratchet turned and in two steps had grabbed the cube, hurriedly lifted the outline to his mouth components and tossed it back to be consumed in a single large gulp. Some of the energon spilled in two small rivulets out of the corners of his mouth, which he wiped away with an impatient swipe of his forearm.

"Ahh . . . that's better. . . ." Imperious, slightly suspicious blue optics narrowed their gaze as they took in the form of the small yellow minibot and the flesh creature resting in the crook of his left arm.

"Hmph," was his first comment, frowning down at the shrinking brown-haired human. "Yes, I remember . . . the requisitions for your project did come through today. Here," he turned to fetch a tube of clear light blue fluid out from the surrounding mess on his table. "It's called rho-fentanyl . . . I based it off one of their own medications." Ratchet chuckled briefly to himself at the irony, then frowned again. "Tested and all, should be what you need. Take it back to. . . .   Perceptor." He scowled even more fiercely, the expression looking ferocious under the vee-shaped black headguard mounted on the top of his cranium The audible pause and the soft sarcasm on the feared scientist's name told Bumblebee volumes.

"The back labs, through there?" Bee accepted the vial, then pointed at another set of doors on the left side of the room, past a large (operating?) table and a heap of equipment lit with a variety of soft lights.

"Where else is the Lord Prime going to put him?" Ratchet growled irritably. "Near the so-called labs of that crank? No, of course he's back there, taking up my valuable medbay space. Now go 'way and let me keep looking for my stash. . . ." Grumbling again, the white robot, which Spike now noted was lightly stained in a variety of places, turned to paw through the pile of refuse on the table once more.

Moving quickly, Bumblebee turned from the cranky medic and subspaced the vial, relieved that he had thought to bring down a bit of spare spiked energon with him. His encounters with Ratchet always went so much more smoothly when he had something to share. He walked through the dimly lit bay, past the operating table and tried not to wince as he imagined the number of victims that had been altered against their will while strapped down to the ominous-looking slab of silvery metal.

At the doors, Bee paused, then knocked cautiously before opening the door. Meganiums had passed, but dealing with Perceptor never seemed any easier, or any less frightening.

"Ah, you have appeared in the correct chronal coordinates, I see." Across the room, a red robot with a large tube attached to his left shoulder turned to greet them in calm disdain. Whereas the main Medbay was dim and smelled of caustic cleaners, Perceptor evidently had different ideas of how a laboratory should appear. The lights were on, for instance, causing Spike to blink as his eyes adjusted from the prior dimness. The tall gleaming lab benches and cabinets that edged the walls were meticulously organized, and the caustic stench had been replaced by a more subtle array of chemical and metallic odors. The red Autobot himself stood near a large computer console.

As Perceptor had not moved to greet them, Bumblebee crossed the lab to speak with the larger robot.

"I try to make a point not to waste your time, Perceptor," the yellow Bot replied, hoping that he'd correctly interpreted the scientist's comment.

"This is the organic?" Perceptor asked, and frowned slightly and crossed his arms as he gazed down at the human held in Bee's arms. Piercing blue optics studied the human dispassionately from a face framed by a dark gray helmet. "I do have the usual authorizations, Bumblebee, and I happened to still possess one of the radio implants I designed." The barrel of . . . whatever that thing was on his shoulder seemed to point directly at Spike, giving him a distinctly uneasy feeling.

"That will be fine, Perceptor, thank you," Bumblebee replied politely. So far this hadn't gone too badly. "Where do you want him?"

"I've designed and assembled an operative table suitable for the size of this organic," Perceptor replied, and reached over with one arm to input a command into the computer. A few meters away, one lab bench folded outward neatly into a table outfitted with flexible metallic straps. As Bumblebee moved towards it, fear rose in his captive as he started putting facts together. Scientist . . . strapped down . . . radio implant . . . doesn't sound good. . . .

"Hey . . . no. . . ." Spike started to struggle, which as usual was useless against the metallic strength of his captor. "What are you going to do to me?" he cried out as Bumblebee began firmly strapping squirming human to the table.

"Just remember, this is for your own good," Bee replied. Finished securing the human's body and limbs, he turned his head to Perceptor. "Behind the left ear?"

Perceptor came up to the table, bearing a small array of instruments and considered.

"I believe that will be satisfactory," he replied, setting his tools out carefully. Bumblebee turned Spike's head to the right and strapped him down tightly, his right cheek pressed firmly against the cold metal beneath him. Being strapped down to an operative table finally broke the human's resistance as cold panic overwhelmed him. Bumblebee had hurt him to make him do as he was told, but nothing like this . . . nothing involving surgical implantation of something into his skull!

"Please," Spike moaned, trembling and afraid. "Please Bumblebee, I'll do anything you ask . . . please don't hurt me," the human begged.

"I am prepared to proceed," Perceptor stated. For the first time, a glimmer of interest was seen in the cold blue optics as he watched the organic plead for release. He carefully drew out a small device, barely the size of a human fingertip, and set it near the operating table. Picking up a coagulation micro-scalpel, he loomed over Spike as Bumblebee moved away, watching.

Bending over his subject, Perceptor's optics brightened in anticipation of the organic's screams.

He was not disappointed.

The human slept, cheeks tear-stained, two years of drugs, torment, and servitude behind him. The combination of high-dose rho-fentanyl and the near-constant stream of instruction and subliminal recordings sent through the radio implant had dissolved any rebellion like so much snow thrown into a bonfire. Once he had proven more compliant and respectful, Bumblebee could have been considered almost kind to him, had looked after him like a beloved pet. Spike's personality had gradually seemed to disappear into the drug-haze, until he even forgot to hate the yellow robot most of the time. It had been over a year and a half since he had even considered escape, now.

After all, he could never go back. He'd die if he did. He forever belonged to Lord Bumblebee. . . .

"Voila!!" Sparkplug Witwicky finished with a flourish after the last screw was in place. "We have hot showers, people!" He stood back and contemplated the arrangement of tanks and tubes sitting against the stone wall of the mineshaft, using the light from a string of fluorescent bulbs to make certain everything was in place.

"Hahaa!" crowed a black-headed woman, Oriental features lit up in pleasure. "At last, we recreate some civilization!" Like the others, she wore battered blue jeans and a patched shirt, her dark eyes sparkling during one of her rare smiles.

"No kidding," agreed a second woman fervently, blond hair framing a thin face with intense blue eyes. "This'll be like going to heaven!"

The three grinned at each other, flush with the triumph of human ingenuity. The object of their enthusiasm started humming softly beside them, and Sparkplug carefully lifted a small pink cube about the size of a softball, and poured the glowing contents into an adapted fuel tank.

"Amazing!" the blonde shook her head in wonder. "I can hardly believe just that small bit of energon will power this system for so long!"

"For about a week, Carly," the gray-haired man confirmed, replacing the empty cube on the ground near his steel-toed boots.

"I'm just glad our.... allies.... don't know that we can adapt their fuel tanks," the Oriental woman commented, face returning to her more familiar seriousness.

"Oh, not again, Lyn!" Carly groaned. "Let's not argue about this right now! Chip won when we drew straws - I'll go get him! The sooner he showers, the sooner for the rest of us!" Pushing herself off from the mineshaft wall, Carly started up the gentle incline of the tunnel to the nearby living area.

Sparkplug threw a wry glance Lyn's way as he kept an eye on the water heating system.

"You know Marilyn, I might agree with you at least partly, but you know how she feels about the Decepticons."

The rigged Cybertronian fuel tank, about four feet high, was installed via a surprisingly simple array of tubes and wired to a more traditional, large water heater the group had scavenged from the wreckage of an apartment building. The water source, in turn, was the stream that had been diverted long ago to provide water for the silver mining operation, back in the days of human dominance over their planet. A shower stall had been improvised from sheets of plastic, with a bench to one side.

Lyn frowned at him. "I know. And I wish she wouldn't trust them so blindly - I still think that getting aid from any robot is a risky proposition."

"Well, considering we've survived this long, maybe their help has been worth it," Sparkplug pointed out, putting one hand cautiously on the heater tank. It was already warm. He shook his head in wonder. "At least this should be a boost to morale. It's been pretty tense around here lately."

"When is it not?" Lyn cocked her head at him, shoulder-length black hair shifting, then relented. "I'm sorry, Sparkplug . . . the fall is getting to me, too." Unspoken were the comments that had been uneasily passed from person to person around the cell recently: the coming winter would make food that much harder to find, and the rebel's survival that much more uncertain.

"Here, keep an eye on that thing, and I'll go get some towels . . . perhaps we should build a rack here. . . ."

Her precise voice drifted off as she followed Carly up the tunnel, leaving Sparkplug to his thoughts.

Huh . . . if we can adapt this to power our electrical systems and a water heater, I wonder if we could rig some kind of defense system, maybe improve the alarm perimeter? Sparkplug mused. He absently wiped away sweat from his forehead. Graying hair still stubbornly grew on his balding head, and deep lines had etched themselves in his face over the two years since the robots had come.

The fuel tank hummed very softly as it processed the liquid energon, a small imprint identifying it as Autobot in construction. Usually it took enough to kill one of the robots that the fuel tank was destroyed in the process; but in the last combat they had been lucky enough to scavenge one relatively unharmed. Sparkplug idly wondered what their Decepticon allies would think if they knew that the humans of the cell were using salvaged Autobot parts.

Probably the same way we'd feel if we discovered the Bots using human stomachs for something, he thought, then cynically contradicted himself. Nah, they wouldn't be horrified at the parts being used, just surprised and a bit nervous that we've been able to adapt more Cybertronian technology . . . they always seem to underestimate us. . . .

Voices interrupted his reverie as the two women of the group returned with another man in tow. He carefully controlled the descent of his wheelchair against the slope of the tunnel, his usually solemn tenor voice cheerful as he greeted the older man.

"I see you've done it again! The ladies tell me we have working hot water! And I intend to claim my prize - death to any who stand in my way!" Brown eyes flashed in good humor from behind wire-rimmed glasses as the young man maneuvered his way to the fuel tank and assorted apparatus to have a good look.

"Don't you think that's a little severe, Chip?" Carly giggled a little, preparing to help him move from the chair to the bench.

"Not when I think I've been dreaming about hot showers for the last year!" Chip retorted. He pushed back shaggy brown hair as he studied the power couplings connecting the fuel tank to the water heater. "Looks good. And I'll be happy to test the results!" The other humans grinned, pleased to see Chip in such a cheerful mood. Sparkplug, satisfied with the heater, left to allow the ladies to transport the crippled young man to the bench in the shower with a bit more privacy.

Poor kid, he thought, then reversed himself again. No, Chip's not a child . . . none of them are; seen and lost too much in this war . . . good to see him smile, though. He walked the tunnels in the glare of florescent bulbs to his own room, digging out a set of clean clothing. It wouldn't be too terribly long until it was his own turn to have a real, live, hot shower.

Later, as he did nearly every day, Sparkplug stuck his head inside the workroom reserved for the gifted, paralyzed young man whose technological wizardry had saved them destruction or capture more times than he cared to think about. Chip's lab had once been a manager's office, as far as they could tell. Once they had replaced all the old file cabinets and dust with tables, shelving, and tools it had proven to be ideal.

"How's it going today, Chip?" Sparkplug asked, feeling more wonderfully clean than he had in months.Camp showers just hadn't done the trick...

Chip looked up from a table crowded with spare parts, wiring, and tools. The artificial light glinted off his glasses as he replied with a small smile, "Hey, Sparkplug. Do me a favor and see if you can find any holes in my latest project." Sparkplug stepped into the room and over to the workbench.

"Look here," Chip instructed, wheeling himself away from the table a little to allow Sparkplug to peer closely at the work in progress. "It's an EM pulse delivery system, coupled with a transmitting virus."

"Electromagnetic pulse?" Sparkplug examined the device on Chip's worktable. Small, spherical, and covered with circuits, it was held up and in place by a workstand. The older man reached out with a forefinger to gently probe the surface of the black and silver object.

"Do you think this will actually work against Transformers?" he asked, with a bare hint of skepticism in his voice. "I mean, surely they've used such things against each other in their wars."

"I asked Bluestreak," Chip answered with a thoughtful frown. "Apparently they have, but they remain partially vulnerable to it. They've never used mass EM pulse weapons because apparently too much of Cybertron would be harmed by them - even the Autobots had more sense than that. Bluestreak was surprised by the question. I get the impression that it's been an ignored weapon for a long time."

"What do you mean by partially vulnerable?" Sparkplug returned, working his way through the problem.

The younger man sighed and pushed his hair back with both hands, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table. "I mean that EM pulses will disrupt their circuitry all right, but they'll probably be able to 'reboot' after a fashion very quickly. Maybe even in a matter of seconds. But that's where the virus comes in."

"You said that it'll transmit itself?" Sparkplug looked over the construct and pointed at a set of silver circuits. "Are those - ?"

"Yup, contact initiation circuits. Once these things hit something, the contact will set them off. Here's the radio transmitter," and Chip carefully took off one of the panels, revealing the part in question. "Once this hits a target, the EM pulse should put a pause on the damn things and give the virus a chance to infiltrate." The brown-haired youth grinned up at Sparkplug. "You'll never guess what I figured out as a delivery system for these things." He paused for effect. "That baseball launcher we salvaged!"

"That thing you took from the wrecked putt-putt place?" Sparkplug laughed. "Now I know why you wanted that! I thought you were out of your mind with nostalgia . . . should've known better." He took a playful swipe at Chip. "Sounds like a good job for Rick," he commented, then continued his job as devil's advocate. "And will the virus actually work? Have you been able to test it?"

Chip shook his head. "Not a lot of willing candidates around to field test it. Neither Bluestreak nor Dart were very interested in the idea," he chuckled. He spoke of the two renegade Cybertronians, who after distancing themselves from both factions, Autobot and Decepticon, had found mutual gain in allying with this particular group of humans.

"At any rate, the virus is designed to isolate the personality core of the target and disconnect them from their input/output lines - basically puts a robot into sensory deprivation and paralysis. But all the simulations I've been able to put it through indicate that even if it doesn't work, it'll at least be a major distraction while the Autobot fights it off." The young man's face moved into a different expression at the thought. It included hate, and anticipation.

"And a major distraction in battle can be fatal," Sparkplug summed up, and shared a grim smile with his younger friend. "Sounds good, Chip." He clasped the programmer's shoulder. "This should give us an edge - the first time we use it, anyway. How many can we assemble in three days?"

"So we finally caught a transmission as to when that energon convoy's coming through?" Chip whistled through his teeth. "It'll be a push... but I'd guess a half a dozen if I lock myself in here. More if Carly helps."

Sparkplug nodded slowly in agreement, his craggy face folding in a thoughtful frown. "I had hoped for her help in upgrading the weapons systems for the cross-fire strategy, but I think I can do that myself . . . and that this is probably as important." He shook his head wryly. "At times like these, I'm doubly glad for Paul and Rick."

"Yeah, if it weren't for them, and for Doc Lyn mothering us all, we'd have probably starved by now," Chip sighed as he stretched, rotating his neck. "Well, I'll get back to work. If Carly ever gets out of her shower" he snickered, "would you have her come help me?"

The older man chuckled at that. "Will do, Chip," he said, giving the young man a final squeeze on his shoulder before leaving. Prying Carly out of that shower might take an Act of God, he thought to himself, amused, as he exited the workroom and headed down a short paneled corridor to what had been converted into the main living area.

Paul McCurry glanced over from the kitchen area as Sparkplug entered the high-ceilinged cavern. More fluorescent lights were strung here, many from the original use of the complex as a mine. The whole area was roughly circular, with multiple openings. A huge set of bay doors against the south wall served as the entrance to the outside world, and their small collection of working vehicles and gasoline drums were settled in the southwest corner. The southeast corner held a collection of scrapped vehicles and the larger salvaged parts, both Earthen and Cybertronian. The remainder of the area served as communal living space and kitchen, with wood stoves in the cooking area and along the north wall, where a variety of chairs and small couches formed a circle around the source of heat.

"Hey Paul," Sparkplug called over to the group's cook, whose age was evidenced by his shaggy mane of snowy hair and untrimmed white beard. "Carly out and about yet?"

"Naw, she did finally get out of the shower, though, 'cause Rick went and claimed it just a few minutes ago." Paul chuckled as he used a long wooden spoon to stir the contents of a pot, and exchanged an amused look with the other older man as if to say, Kids. "She's probably getting dressed. By the way, lunch in thirty minutes."

"Thanks," the gray-haired mechanic replied. He sniffed experimentally. "Rabbit stew?"

"Got it in one," Paul answered. "Rick got lucky hunting this morning."

Sparkplug nodded in approval. "Wonderful! I'll look forward to it, Mr. McCurry," he said in exaggerated formality.

"I'm glad my hard work is appreciated, Mr. Witwicky," Paul replied in their old joke, a twinkle in his green eyes.

Sparkplug walked off whistling, a cheery sound. Half an hour; that'll be enough time to at least get one of the rocket launchers cleaned and inspected, he thought, and afterwards I'll pay Bluestreak and Dart a visit, let them know what's up. Their allies had their own base, further up the mountain. He went through an opening along the southwest side, past the largish heaps of machinery, and entered his own workshop.

Early evening brought the sunset, stark and colorful against the bare hills and skeletal trees. Carly stood under the tall overhanging which marked the west side-entrance to the mining complex, warmly dressed against the moderate chill in clean but worn clothes. Blue eyes thoughtfully studied the painted sky as the sun slowly descended past the horizon, and she leaned against the right side of the large doorway, flexing tired fingers as she fretted.

I wonder if they'll come tonight. It's been at least two weeks since they were last here, she thought. News is so hard to come by when we have to keep radio silence. For a moment her head turned to the left to look south, as if for a moment she could send her gaze a hundred and fifty miles to the feared center of the Autobot's power. I just hope that the 'Cons haven't lost anyone to the 'Bots . . . they can't afford to lose anyone. Hell, humanity can't afford for them to lose anyone.

Soft footsteps approached from behind her, and she turned a bit to see Rick's tall, blond headed figure approaching in the very dim artificial light that was all the group allowed near entrances.

"I thought you'd be here," he smiled warmly down at her in greeting. She gave a small smile in return.

"You know me and sunsets," she replied, looking back out at the soft rainbow of colors against the western sky. "Still catching up on them."

"Just thought you'd like to know . . ." Rick's voice dropped away teasingly, and continued when she turned to him with a question in her eyes. "The perimeter's been tripped by a large metallic cat-friend of yours." He chuckled. "At least he's getting more considerate; the last time he popped in here without deliberately setting off our alarms I think Lyn had three kinds of fits."

"She's a little paranoid about the Deceps even for most humans these days," Carly shook her head, damp blond hair moving about her shoulders. "Thanks, Rick. It'll be good to see Ravage again." Together the two young humans turned and walked back up the fifteen-foot high tunnel cut into the side of the hill, and went through a rather ordinary sized door that led indirectly into the main communal area.

When the two arrived, they found the other four humans already there. Sparkplug went to the right side of the bay doors to the control pad, hitting a large push button for a few seconds, which resulted in a screech as the rusty eastern door slid open about four feet. As the rest of them waited, Dr. Kuo shook her head in disapproval and went to stand against the far side of the cavern, near a neatly hidden laser rifle.

Paul watched her stand back, and shook his head. He wasn't all that fond of dealing with any robots himself, but at least he could recognize the necessity of it. Their work here wouldn't be half as effective without the alliance existing between them and the Decepticons. And ultimately, all that mattered was that they shared a common goal with the 'Cons: that the Autobots be driven away from Earth.

As they continued to wait, chatting softly, he noted again how Carly's eyes were drawn to Chip as if by a magnet, watching the paralyzed young man trade smart remarks with Sparkplug. As if she hadn't just spent all day with him assembling those new trick baseballs of his! Paul had seen the same symptoms over and over in his restaurant employees back in the day, and was growing increasingly concerned. Not that it's my business, he thought, but she needs to at least tell Rick what's going on in her heart before that boy breaks his over her.

Inaudibly, a black shape with warmly glowing red optics separated itself from the deepening shadows of twilight outside the door and stepped into the light, revealing itself as a shoulder high metallic black panther. When fully inside, he stood quietly a moment, a statue of ebon and silver, sleekly beautiful with twin missile pods at his hips glinting dangerously in the light.

"Ravage!" Carly greeted happily, coming forward to lay a hand on her friend's shoulder. "It's been weeks. Has everything been alright?"

"It is good to see you, Carly," Ravage responded in his deep, gentle voice, delicately touching her hair with his muzzle. "And to see the rest of you," he added, casting his crimson gaze across the small semicircle of humans. Chip and Sparkplug replied with some words of greeting, Paul and Rick simply nodded in response. Sparkplug hit the controls that resulted in a squeal as the large door ponderously closed. The great panther waited until the noise ended before continuing.

"Unfortunately, I carry some ill news; and there's no way to make this easier." His large head swung around slightly until he was gazing directly at Paul.

"As near as we can tell," he continued softly, "Two days ago, two groups of human rebels were killed during a raid in northwest Arizona."

The white haired man stared at the visitor's compassionate red optics in shock. "But . . . my boy Chris operated out of Arizona . . . he can't be. . . ." Paul McCurry shook his head in denial. "No. . . ."

Ravage bowed his head, ebony metal reflecting the florescent light.

"I'm so very sorry, Paul. I saw Chris' body." Primus, Ravage hated this. Hated the way his words extinguished the light in the older man's green eyes, hated having to report the death of Paul's creation to him. Hated the Autobots responsible for it all.

"Oh God, no . . . ah, Chris. Dammit!" Paul was reduced to a harsh whisper as the impact of the news came crashing down on his head. The other humans crowded close around him, laying their hands upon him in gestures of tactile comfort and shared grief. Not one of them had been unmarked by loss during the terrible war waged upon them by the Autobots, but only one other had lost a son.

"I'm so sorry, Paul," Sparkplug said, understanding and sadness in his brown eyes. A few tense moments passed as Paul struggled to control his emotions long enough to ask for more details.

Green eyes shining with tears and anger, Paul returned Ravage's gaze. "Tell me," he ordered quietly. "Tell me what happened, and which of those bastards I should be targeting."

Ravage replied with succinct sentences all that he knew. He had been going to visit the southwestern cells, bringing a few more deliveries from Bombshell, and found the first base deserted. In the second base he found two children and their mother, who told him that there had been a planned attack the evening before, from which no one had returned. He had gone to investigate the coordinates of the target, and had found a battlefield. The bodies had been left where they had fallen. Chris was one of the few recognizable corpses. Ravage omitted any other graphic details.

Another brief uneasy silence followed, then with a short burst of expletives, Paul ripped himself away from the others and walked quickly to the door that led to the western entrance.

"I'll go be with him," Sparkplug told the others quietly, and followed. Lyn gave Ravage a sharp glance as if blaming him for the whole situation, and disappeared into her office with a frown.

Ravage let out a sigh through his airvents. Delivering bad news was always stressful for him, and his job required him to do it a lot more often than he preferred.

"C'mon, let's sit down," Carly suggested, subdued, and patted Ravage comfortingly on his metallic shoulder. The humans went to the circle of seats before the woodstove, Chip wheeling himself to a spot left open for his chair. Carly settled herself in a lowset armless easy chair, and as he had done several times before, Ravage padded over to lay with his large head in her lap.

Rick opened the woodstove where a small fire was burning, added some wood, then turned off the harsh florescent lights, leaving only the flickering light from the open stove to illuminate the area. He settled down near Carly on a padded couch, glancing over at the door from which the two older men had left the room.

"Paul will be all right eventually," Chip commented softly, his expression grim in the suddenly dim light. "He still has Sean out on the East Coast somewhere, and at least he knows for certain what happened to Chris."

"As opposed to Richard," Rick nodded. "Jesus, it's been what, two years? He hasn't seen his son since the Bots first woke up . . . he almost has to be dead, but it's impossible to be sure."

"If the alternative is working in one of the Autobot's factories, we should almost hope for his sake that he's dead." Carly spoke softly but firmly as she gently stroked her friend's great black head. Ravage's optics had been half-closed in contentment, but at that he opened them and turned his head just a bit to look up at his friend's face.

"Do you really mean that, Carly?" he asked in some surprise. The girl could feel the reverberations of his deep voice in her legs where his vocalizer pressed.

"That always surprises you Decepticons, for some reason," she replied, shaking her blond head. "The idea that for many humans, death is preferable to living in slavery. Believe me," she continued, blue eyes gazing in remembered pain at the dancing flames in the stove, "I considered it many times when I was a slave."

Ravage closed his optics, this time in a sort of despair. The fight for this planet had not been going well at all recently, and he had begun to wonder if humanity was a doomed species, like so many of the native sentients of the worlds the Great War had swept across. So valiant, he thought, so stubborn. A lot like we Decepticons . . . more so than most of us like to think about.

"There's more I should tell you," he spoke aloud. "We've lost several human cells across the world in a relatively short period of time. It seems that the Autobots are increasing their efforts to discourage rebellion."

Chip snorted. "As long as we have breath, we'll have rebellion," he stated, the firelight reflecting from his glasses.

"I believe you. However, the Autobots hold the opinion that you can be discouraged," Ravage replied. "Soundwave believes that somehow the Autobots are getting wind of planned raids. Twice in the last three months, we have been counter-ambushed by them while assisting human attacks." He sighed again, air rushing out of his vents in a soft whoosh. Those fights had not been pretty at all. "Just . . . be careful. Even more so than usual. Something is going on."

"We'll keep an extra eye out," Carly promised, and sighed. "You know about the energon convoy coming through in a few days?"

"Your next target?" Ravage replied, earning a brief nod in reply from Chip.

"We have some new weapons to test," he responded, neglecting to add the fact that their Cybertronian allies, Bluestreak and Dart, were near the end of their current energon supply.

"The last I heard, Bombshell was nearing completion of the latest round of human-size laser rifles. Would those be helpful to you?" the panther offered. Another part of his job was to determine where limited resources such as adapted Cybertronian resources could be most useful.

Carly nodded firmly. "Absolutely. I still have occasional lock-up problems with the old ones, and that's not something that's fun at all to experience in the middle of a raid." She gave a wry chuckle.

Ravage had no intention of allowing one of his best human friends go into battle with less than the best he could give her. Perhaps he could convince Megatron to allow him to aid in the actual attack.

"I shall plan to return tomorrow night in that case, with the new armaments," he rumbled, optics slowly becoming half-shuttered again as Carly continued to stroke his metallic head. "I rendezvous with Skywarp before dawn to return to headquarters."

"How are Frenzy, and the rest of the 'Cons?" Carly asked after her friends at the Decepticon base.

"They are well," Ravage answered, "Laserbeak and Thundercracker sustained some serious damage in our last battle with the Autobots, but they are fully recovered now." Chip caught Rick's eye and shook his head slightly. Even for him, likely one of the most intelligent humans left on Earth, it was almost unintelligible how a human could ask after giant robots the way most people asked after relatives.

Women. Always find something to talk about, even these days.

"Would you like to recharge here for a few hours?" the woman offered. The Decepticon considered for a moment, then accepted.

"That is most appreciated," he responded, and in a bit of mischief, completely shuttered his optics as if he were going to shut down right there, effectively pinning Carly to the cushioned chair with his great head.

"Hey! Not here on my lap, you big . . . cat!" the girl giggled, pushing at his head ineffectively with both arms. The watching men snickered softly, glancing at each other in amusement at Carly's predicament.

"Hmmm?" The large black cat didn't budge, simply rumbled a deep inquisitive note.

"Ravage!" She laughed, the whole point of the panther's performance. He unshuttered his optics, which were gleaming brightly with amusement, and lifted his head.

"Not here? Very well then, I shall seek an unoccupied corner elsewhere." Ravage rose to all four feet, and again in a gesture of friendship, touched his muzzle lightly to her hair. She smiled up at him, and then he padded off to the southwest corner to find a roughly cushioned platform beyond the row of parked vehicles. Curling up on his sometimes recharge berth, he lay with his optics toward the great metal doors of the entrance, and shuttering his optics, slipped into light but true recharge.

About a hundred and fifty human miles to the south, the Ark stood, spearing the side of the now-dormant volcano that was Mt. St. Hilary. Deep within its recesses, the chief lieutenant of the Autobot forces had just received a report from a field operative.

The sleek Autobot raised one hand to his lip components in a meditative posture, while his other absently caressed his acid pellet gun. Probabilities danced through one of the most sophisticated sets of logic circuits in existence as Prowl internally reviewed Scopeshot's report. He leaned back in his dimly lit office, light and shadow cautiously caressing his white and black form as he moved. Prime will need to be informed of this one, he thought, considering some of the implications in the sniper's report, and determined the next mission of the Autobot's specialist in organic counter-resistance.

Bumblebee exited Prowl's office, elated. A new mission, so soon! Specific instructions to attempt to draw out the Decepticons as much as possible had been emphasized in his briefing, along with the coordinates for a rebel base so close that Bee could barely believe they had survived this long without detection. Apparently the flesh creature that Scopeshot had tortured had been the creation of a rebel who lived in this other group . . . and the hated enemy was a regular visitor into this particular camp. It would be more risky than some of his prior missions, but as Springer said, Wounds can be repaired, Femmes dig scars, and Glory is Forever. . . .

Prowl had directed that Bee leave in the morning, allowing one day between missions, and had rewarded the success of his latest work with an extra energon ration, large enough for several enjoyable evenings of overcharge. He decided to take Spike outside, to his preferred spot behind the Ark . . . Spike would surely be much happier since taking a full dose of his rho-fentanyl, Bumblebee thought.

The yellow mini-bot decided to make the most of his time as he skipped down the hallway, feeling a little odd without the familiar light burden of human in his arms. He passed several Autobots, including the darkly cloaked Sunstreaker, prompting a short line of thought. The Black Sun had certainly been acting odd lately, almost even more depressed and furtive than usual. Bumblebee suspected it dated from a recent clash with the Cons, but had been unable to tell if the cause was something in the battle or perhaps a visit to the Med Bay for repairs afterwards.

Dismissing Sunstreaker from further consideration, Bee skidded to a stop outside his quarters and unlocking his door, entered his private haven. Maybe he should get Spike dressed in something besides those boring rags that fit in with what the rebel humans all wore, he considered, looking to his right on entry, noting that his pet appeared to be fast asleep in his cage.

After he had safely stored the energon in hidden compartments, he pulled out a small cube of previously spiked energon and smiled in anticipation. He roused Spike, and after brief consideration, dressed him in one of Bumblebee's favorite outfits - the one that included the jacket embroidered with wiring and bits of Decepticon optics.

The human was groggy but cooperative to commands, the familiar glazed look having replaced the sullen expression of the past several days. Bumblebee chuckled to himself, not noticing the faint tracks of dried tears down Spike's cheeks.

As Bumblebee exited his quarters and turned to lock the door, he noticed a long shadow appearing against the wall of the corridor, accompanied by the soft rhythmic sound of small metallic feet walking from the nearby corner. A quiet voice floated around the corner, preceding the arrival of the four-legged MetalliCat.

The feline Autobot drifted into his passageway, following the curve of the rust-colored hallway and chasing invisible glitch-mice in short rushes that caused her damaged wings to flare out behind her, then settle as she paused. All the while, she alternated between muttering and softly singing phrases that made little sense.

The horned mini-bot eyed her cautiously. Particularly in the first days after her punishment from the Lord Prime, letting her catch sight of Spike usually meant some sort of violent reaction. This was still the case on occasion, and though he wasn't worried about himself, there was always the chance that Spike could be harmed. This close to a mission, he really didn't want to have to deal with her.

MetalliCat landed with one final pounce then looked up startled, as if Bumblebee were the one who had wandered into her hallway. Her green optics went wide and glowed bright for a moment, and Bee tensed, waiting to dodge a pounce or swipe. Then her optics seemed to focus on the small red-pink cube of spiked energon he held, and she actually seemed to relax.

"Turn off your mind, relax and float downstream. . . .  It is not dying, it is not dying," she crooned, ruffling her ruined wings and turning in a circle. The yellow mini-bot relaxed marginally. This could be one of the few times the crazed Autobot didn't freak out.

"Lay down all thought, surrender to the void. . . .   It is shining, it is shining . . .," the cat actually seemed to be laughing at him! Bee started to edge away, when Spike actually stirred from his near-comatose state in his arms.

"Lucy in the sky, with diamonds," his tenor voice slurred slightly as he sang. The human leaned forward a little, as if he had forgotten all the times MetalliCat had nearly hurt him in her panic. A curious light was in his glazed brown eyes, as if some thought had just clicked into place.

In return the feline stared back at the human a measure of intelligence actually gleaming in her optics as they connected with Spike's eyes.

"All things must pass. . . . None of life's strings can last," she sang as if speaking directly to Spike, as if conveying some secret message.

"Climb in the back with your head in the clouds," Spike sang out the only other line of song he could remember, not caring whether or not it made any sense. The purple Autobot circled again, arching her back and wings, then abruptly took off down the corridor. Her voice came back behind her with some final mysterious words.

"Whatever happened to the life that we once knew? Can we really live without each other?"

Bumblebee sighed in relief as the strange Autobot left without incident, and looked down at his human in some surprise.

"What was that you were singing?" he asked, moving off towards the Ark's exit. It would be nice to get one night to himself before taking off again in the morning.

"Just an old song, Lord Bumblebee," Spike replied with his usual goofy smile, relaxing into the skipping stride of his master. "Nothing important . . . anymore. . . ."

The next morning dawned bright, clear, and chill. Bumblebee had been careful to be ready on time, and had roused his human from sleep a few hours before.

The yellow Autobot began his preparations by artfully exchanging a few panels of his gleaming body shell for more rusted, used looking ones. Like most Autobots, his fuel tank had been adjusted so that it could also use the polyhydrocarbon energy source known as gasoline. He had Spike place a few armfuls of provisions for the human in his trunk, then drove before a mirror to inspect himself.

"Yep, I look like one of those rusted down junkers that the rebellion passes off as vehicles," he commented in distaste. "Perfect." He transformed smoothly, then picked up Spike for the walk to the Ark's exit. "C'mon then, little human. We have more glory to achieve."

The exit from the Ark was uneventful except for the wicked chuckles of the Autobot on sentry duty at the entrance.

"Lookin' pretty," Sideswipe snickered at the rusty panels. Bumblebee, in a great show of miniature dignity, ignored the larger red Mech and transformed with Spike in the driver's seat, then rolled out taking the road north.

"Have a nice date with your fleshies!" Sideswipe called out again as the yellow Volkswagen departed, and chortled in amusement.

They drove together for several hours, leaving the smoothly paved roads constructed for the convenience of the Autobots onto old, rougher roads that had not seen repair in two years. Bee grumbled about the damage to his gyro system that was inevitable on surfaces like these, while Spike rode quietly and brooded. He really didn't want to go out on a mission again, not ever, and especially not so soon. In the absence of the full dose of the sedating drug, a few treacherous thoughts escaped to be mulled over by his damaged mind.

It was a great morning for driving, a beautiful day in early fall - if one looked past the rows of blackened tree trunks and generally devastated landscape to concentrate on the clear blue sky. Their path took them through the mountains, Bee switching on a special audio synthesizer to produce sounds of an Earthen car in ill repair as they approached their goal.

The mission began as several had before, evidently by tripping some sort of peripheral alarm. As usual, Bumblebee couldn't quite figure out what the organics had used - a Bot had to give credit to the humans for creating some innovative low-tech alarm systems which were difficult for Autobot sensors to detect.

A pair of humans in what appeared to be an ex-Army Jeep blocked the next curve in what had become a mere excuse for a trail, a dirt path faintly scattered with gravel. The yellow Volkswagen did a quick passive scan of the Jeep, noting in relief that it was not Swindle or any of the other Decepticon vehicles, then directed his attention to the humans. Both were male, one blond and young, one white-haired and with the sternest look Bee had seen on a human. They were also both armed, pointing some sort of modified rifle in their direction. Bumblebee stopped, noting a few obviously Cybertronian systems on the weapons, and Spike slowly got out, raising both arms in supplication.

"Who the hell are you and what do you want?" the white haired man all but growled, eyeing them suspiciously.

:Go on, give them the script.: Bumblebee instructed via the implanted radio.

With a swallow, easily misinterpreted as nervousness, Spike complied. As usual, the story worked. Humans all had a soft spot for an "escaped factory slave". The younger one, Rick, appeared more sympathetic, but eventually even the white headed man, named Paul, agreed to allow him refuge at their base. Spike climbed back into the yellow car, and the small procession journeyed the half mile further up the mountain.

Spike rode in misery, his hands on the steering wheel even though he didn't do any of the actual driving. He wished he were back home in his cage, anywhere but about to betray more of his own kind. He stared ahead, mentally rehearsing his lines, scanning for the first sign of the rebel's base.

And thus it was understandably a shock when someone he thought he'd lost forever came into view.

"Dad," he breathed, hands tightening convulsively on the steering wheel. His eyes hungrily took in the sight of his father, who looked much older than Spike remembered, but was still unmistakable. Sparkplug stood just beside the entrance through a head-high wall of natural stone, a stern frown troubling his face at the sight of the new vehicle as he casually held some sort of rifle. Spike's eyes held a tortured light as he gazed on his father, and his breathing started to accelerate.

With that one word, Bumblebee abruptly came to the conclusion that his mission was in jeopardy. Thinking quickly, the disguised Autobot started transmitting.

:Follow the mission, Spike, or I'll kill your father right here in front of you,: he threatened. Spike trembled; but nodded in misery, knowing that his master meant every syllable.

The little rusty Volkswagen puttered up next to the larger Jeep, the motor coughing a few times before it died. Slowly, Spike opened the door and got out, almost teetering as for the first time in two years, he looked into his father's face. :Just remember the plan,: Bee hissed in his ear. :Don't even think about hinting who I am.:

Sparkplug had been talking to Rick, as Paul had already gone inside, shading his eyes with his hands against the bright sunlight.

"Sorry Sparkplug, but apparently he's just escaped . . . I know we're supposed to be careful, but we couldn't leave him alone out there - " the young man stopped talking as he came to realize that he was being ignored by his older friend.

A transcendental wonder had appeared in Sparkplug's face, and he gazed past Rick's right shoulder in total absorption. Absently, he pressed his rifle into Rick's arms and walked around the front of the Jeep toward the newcomer.

The same brown-hazel eyes met, both shining with the beginnings of tears.

"Spike," his father whispered hoarsely, and with a muffled cry, the boy launched himself into the waiting arms. "Dad. . . oh Dad. . . ." Spike began to sob, holding on to the rough fabric of his father's clothes like a drowning man.

"You're alive." Sparkplug repeated it like a mantra, as if he didn't say it enough, the reality of Spike's presence would cease to be. An expression that was almost pain crossed his expression, and holding his son close, tears began to seep down his weathered face. "Oh God, you're alive!"

Rick looked on dumbfounded at the reunion, then a smile broke out across his face.

"Hey Carly! Chip! Come on out, we have a visitor!!" he shouted in the general direction of the entrance, hidden further up among the rocks. Sometimes, just sometimes, good things could still happen in this upside-down world.
 

But while clinging to his father's arms, Spike's attention was diverted by a small insistent voice he alone could hear:

:That's good, Spike, you can cry. Just stick to the plan or so help me I'll kill your creator where he stands. . :

Spike met the other members of his father's rebel cell in a daze.

Besides Rick and Paul, there were two women, whom he met as soon as his dad escorted him through a pair of huge metal doors leading into a cavernous main room. First was a blond young woman that was perhaps his own age, whose blue gaze softened as soon as she heard the bare bones of his story.

"This is Carly," Sparkplug introduced them. The girl took his hand in a strong grip and gave him a direct look, one that seemed to be communicating something to him. He returned it for an instant, confused and not quite understanding.

"It's so wonderful you're alive and free," she told him sincerely, and he managed a weak grin at her before being turned to meet a petite older woman, whose Oriental features smiled up at him in welcome.

"Welcome, Spike. I'm Marilyn," she introduced herself, taking in his appearance with sharp eyes that lingered over his shabby clothes, the circles under his eyes, and the faded scar prominent behind his left ear.

"This is our resident medic," Sparkplug grinned over at her.

"Heh. I do as best I can," she allowed, then explained to Spike in a precise voice, "I was a Ph.D. in medical research before the invasion. My only claim to being a medic is being able to read through medical texts, and practical experience nursing these yahoos." She glanced slyly around at the others, who just chuckled at the jibe, except for Paul, whose lined face hadn't altered much from its tired, angry look.

Distracted by the intense surreal feeling that held these moments in its grasp, Spike didn't notice a last figure coming to join them until he'd wheeled himself half-way across the rough stone floor. Sparkplug, however, was watching for him and guided Spike across the floor to meet him. "Spike, this is Chip," he beamed as the two young men shook hands. Even in his daze, Spike looked curiously at the man in the wheelchair, wondering how anyone handicapped could have survived two years of occupation. His hand was met by a strong grip and a small smile.

"I'm also called Franklin, on occasion," Chip further introduced himself, which for some reason caused Sparkplug to chuckle. Like all the others, Chip studied the newcomer for a moment, his open gaze revealing the spark of intelligence.

"I'm . . . pleased to meet you, I guess," Spike managed a pleasantry, something that sounded odd in everyone's ears, as if it were a phrase from an age dead and gone. "You and everyone else." His smile was weak, distracted; but that fact was ignored in the context of his recent escape from the hands of the Autobots.

Almost relieved, almost despairing, Spike realized that suspicion was absent from any of their expressions.

They all insisted that he enjoy a hot shower and fresh clothes. Spike would have gladly stayed in the warm, hissing water forever. Dad. . . . why, oh why by all that used to be holy, was his father here? That was the most coherent of the thoughts that appeared in his torn mind, wracked by conflict and doubt.

:That's enough, Spike.: Bumblebee's voice was gentle, comforting. Something familiar he could almost hold onto. :You need to get out now, Spike. Go rejoin the others.: After a few moments he obeyed, reaching to turn off the stream of water, slowly using a towel to pad himself dry. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion, watching his own movements as if they belonged to someone else. It was a common enough sensation when he had just taken a dose of rho-fentanyl; but today he had barely had enough to keep him out of withdrawal. His emotions were threatening to overwhelm him, and he could only attempt retreat.

:That's right. Put some clothes on and join the others,: prompted the voice in his head.

Haltingly, his hands pulled clothing over his thin frame and his feet carried him out of the little hallway that housed the shower, and up the stone incline into the main living area. Sparkplug had been waiting for him on one of the sofas surrounding an old-fashioned wood stove, and jumped up to pull his son to sit next to him.

"Feel better after a hot shower, son?" Richard Witwicky grinned over at his boy. A myriad of emotions ran over the older man's weathered face. He looked like he wanted to laugh, then cry some more, and then to shout out his joy to the sky. He settled for intently studying Spike's face, memorizing the new lines and scars and the changes two years of growth had brought him.

Others came to greet him too, the tall blond guy, Rick, and Paul, who had been talking to Sparkplug before Spike came in. He reminded Spike of the old tradition of mountain men, with his shaggy white hair and beard, and lined, weathered face. The black-haired Oriental woman was here too, a grin across her finely boned features as she watched Spike walk in.

:Yes, better, thanks,: the voice prompted him. With a bare pause, Spike repeated the phrase, letting the calm voice in his head dictate his words. It was so much easier, so much less painful, than trying to think for himself. Seeing his father brought out emotions so intense that his injured mind could not bear to deal with them, and so they were shunted aside.

"Chip and Carly had work they had to get back to," his father commented, then chuckled. "For that matter, we're all busy getting ready for the next move against the Autobots - but I'll explain that later. Spike," and the elder Witwicky placed his hands on his son's shoulders, "what happened that day? The day the . . . Autobots came." He ended in a soft voice, craggy features peering into his son's younger face.

The others waited for the answer expectantly as if they had every right to the answer, too. Spike licked his lips nervously, trying to form a response.

:I got caught,: the voice guided him. :They held me for a while, and then put me in the first of the energon factories. . . .: For a moment he forgot it was Bumblebee dictating to him, just stepped back from conscious control with relief and parroted the words, elaborating on the contrived escape story with a few gestures. This was how such missions always went . . . the voice would guide him safely through it. . . .

His father let him talk, nodding occasionally.

:I would rather not talk about it much,: whispered the voice. :I'm just glad to finally be free, and I can't believe I found you.:

Disconnected, Spike's mouth repeated the words.

Heads bowed over their respective workbenches, Carly and Chip were hard at work producing more "viral baseballs", as their inventor had been calling them. It was tedious and delicate work, and the young woman was grateful for every hour she had spent in Bombshell's lab learning how to handle and assemble circuitry. She glanced sideways to her right where Chip was intent upon his half-assembled sphere, which turned into a longer look as her mind once again fell into its familiar pattern of admiring him from a distance. His straight brown hair needed cutting again, she noted, framing an expression of concentration and nearly hiding her view of the square-cut glasses he wore. A white T-shirt revealed a pale skinned but powerful upper body, strong from over a year of Doc Lyn's concocted physical therapy, and his fingers moved confidently over the half-completed device on the bench in front of him.

His was a natural ability with anything electronic, a near-paranormal insight into programming and electronic physics that catapulted him into genius. Since he had been crippled by the Autobots two years ago, that genius had been fully focused on one object and goal: the destruction of the robotic invaders. Even now, his eyes had that customary burning light in them. Perhaps it was that strength of spirit, that focus of purpose, that so attracted her.

The girl turned back to her work with an inaudible sigh. Her attraction to Chip, she had long ago decided, was as useless as it was immutable. As long as the Autobots were still here to be fought, nothing else would be able to attract his attention. Fortunately today, another subject was near at hand to distract her attention, and she focused her thoughts on the newest addition to their group.

Sparkplug's son, alive, she thought again, a happy smile tugging at her lips. How incredibly bizarre their lives were! Mourning the loss of a son one night, celebrating the return of another the next day . . . if she still had any faith in a god, she would have dubbed him with a sense of irony. At any rate, she hadn't seen Sparkplug so happy since . . . since she'd known him. It was as if a deeply set sorrow that had lain silently over him for years had finally been lifted.

And apparently Spike had somehow survived for two entire years in the Autobot energon factories. A wave of admiration and compassion for the young man swept Carly. How did he do it? she wondered, delicately fitting two components together. I doubt that I would have lived much longer, and I wasn't in captivity for much over one year. She squinted in the florescent lights as she soldered the parts together and into the larger framework, hands sure and deft with the motions. One random thought collided with another, and suddenly she paused in her work as the resultant notion occurred to her.

I wonder how's he going to take our Cybertronian allies . . . and an ex-Autobot to boot!

Late in the afternoon, Richard Witwicky had been showing his son around their base after stuffing him full of rabbit stew. Together they were finding a place for Spike to sleep, as well as scavenging for more and warmer clothes than the ragged tatters the young man had been wearing on arrival. His heart was swelling with deeply felt joy as his son's presence was finally accepted, even by a rational part of his mind that told him nothing this wonderful could happen anymore. He was almost giddy with emotion.

Spike nodded as his father held out a jacket and some flannel shirts. "Looks good," the young man said quietly, a strange expression crossing his face as he accepted the clothes. "Better than anything I've worn in a long time."

Sparkplug pulled his son close in a sideways hug as he handed over the clothes, missing completely the way his boy had avoided any further eye contact since his arrival. Passively, Spike accepted the embrace, something resembling a smile on his face as his father led them out of the rebel's storeroom, back into the florescent bulb-lit gray stone hallway.

"You've come at a great time to start getting back at the Autobots," the older man explained enthusiastically as they walked back to the residential areas, back into one of a myriad of tall stone corridors. "We're getting ready for an attack against one of their energon convoys in a few days. If you're willing to drive a truck, you could be a real help."

"Anything," Spike replied, parroting the words sent to him. "Tell me what I can do."

Bumblebee listened intently through the two-way connection as the elder Witwicky began to outline the location and plan of attack.

" - we've got some pulse rifles that can pack quite a punch," Sparkplug was saying, as he escorted his son through the roughly carved tunnels to his own quarters. "Particularly with some new tactics we've worked out with Bluestreak and Dart -"

:BLUESTREAK?!: Bumblebee's surprised exclamation startled Spike, and he abruptly halted, dropping the small pile of clothes he carried as he echoed his master's shock. He backed up until he felt the firmness of the stone wall behind him.

"Bluestreak?" Spike's voice cracked as he winced from the painful volume resonating in his skull, and the older man turned to regard his son with some consternation, realizing that Spike recognized the name as belonging to an Autobot.

"Believe me, he's got as much against the Bots as we do. I know that working with robots will take some getting used to, son, but trust me when I tell you that we're far more effective with them."

Bumblebee had recovered from his initial shock during this speech, and was ready to give Spike the words to respond.

"But how can you work with an Autobot? With any robot?" the young man asked in an urgent tone, looking at his father with a wide-eyed, almost panicked gaze. Inside, a small part of his mind remembered the last encounter with Bluestreak, remembered the wordless communication that had passed between them just after the large silver Mech had struck down his master. Outwardly, he allowed his father to calm him down.

"Look, son… I know you've been through hell in the last few years," Sparkplug told him, grasping Spike's shoulder and looking directly into his eyes. "But that's why we've teamed up with Bluestreak and Dart - together, we can cause more trouble for the damned Bots, and hopefully free more people like you." His hazel eyes beseeched his son to believe him, to understand.

"They - they don't come around here, do they?" Spike voiced Bumblebee's most urgent question.

"No. Not usually. They have their own base, further up in the mountains," his father answered quietly. Slowly, Spike relaxed, and bent down and retrieved the clothes from the cold tunnel floor. Sparkplug's shoulders sagged a bit in relief, and together they continued up the tunnel to Sparkplug's quarters.

Outside, Bumblebee's central processor was rapidly thinking through this particular complication. He allowed himself a moment's smug glee at the thought that it was he who had finally found the elusive rogue Autobot - or at least a direct connection to him - and would earn, finally, the respect from the Lord Prime he so craved.

Then his mind settled down to business, and he realized that the risks of this mission had just jumped upwards again. Not only would he have to carefully monitor Spike every second, but the distinct possibility arose of his own discovery. If Bluestreak saw him, he would be recognized immediately despite the disguising rusted panels.

It was time to think through a way to remove himself, and Spike, without arousing the suspicions of the humans. . . .

The small yellow Volkswagen sat outside the rebel base in the late afternoon sunlight, and pondered.

Elsewhere, a pair of trim cars swept along a dusty road, following the curve of the mountain as it led upward.

"Well, at least I'm starting to feel better about the whole business," Bluestreak sighed as they drove together along the ill-kept highway. His companion, a black Trans Am, gave a noise of amused agreement.

"Best go into fight with working weapons, yes?" Dart responded. They banked along a curve together, the late afternoon sun glinting off their windshields and hoods.

"I'll tell you what, these humans never cease to amaze me," the silver Datsun continued. "It's one thing to repair structural damage, but Sparkplug sure did a number on my targeting systems as well. Better repair than I've had from Ratchet in vorns." His internal diagnostics agreed with that comment as he recalled the weapons checks they'd just performed.

"Sparkplug not get drunk," she commented, a note of distaste in her voice. Bluestreak had told her plenty of stories about various Autobots in the months they had been together, including the habits of the resident medic. They moved onto a narrower road, Dart taking the lead and hitting the gravel with a crunching sound.

"No kidding," Bluestreak replied dryly. "He doesn't have a bad tactical mind, either. I still wish there were another way to get energon than attack Autobot convoys for it, but at least this bunch of humans seems to think these things through."

"Must think," the black car said. "Not survive, other. Humans - " and then she cut off, brakes squealing.

"Dart - whoa - what?" the silver Datsun sputtered as he braked sharply to avoid hitting the black Trans Am in front of him, who had just abruptly decelerated. Within seconds they had both come to a halt, and he transformed into robot mode, a move that was not matched by his companion.

"What was that all about?" Bluestreak grumped, drawing his rifle out of subspace and doing a quick scan of the area. Dart usually had a reason for her actions. But his first look at the surrounding ridges showed that they were alone, and subsequent scans seemed to bear that out.

A low growl was his first answer, followed by, "Autobot, came through here." The black car finally transformed, ending with a black and silver Femme kneeling in a crouch in the middle of the road, optics glowing a cold cobalt as she studied the ground at her fingertips. Another low rumble escaped her.

"How many? When?" the Mech demanded, doing a quick mental map of their location. He realized with alarm that they were near the last turn-off to the human base. Primus, had the Autobots figured out the location of the human base?

The slender Courier sampled the air through her intakes, examined the traces on the gravel-strewn road.

"One. Today." D